Samantha James (26 page)

The physician returned to the Grayson town house for the seventh day in a row. An expression of defeated resignation on his lined face, he stepped into the hallway outside Heather’s bedroom. As the door clicked quietly shut, four somber faces turned anxiously toward him.

He cleared his throat. “My lords, my lady, I’m afraid there’s little hope. The injury to her head is simply too traumatic.”

“There’s no hope at all.” This came from Damien.

The physician hesitated. “I’ve heard of cases where a patient might awaken days—even weeks—after. But in Heather’s case”—he shook his head—“’tis my belief that day will never come.”

Victoria turned her face into Miles’s shoulder and wept. Beatrice pressed a handkerchief to her lips and stepped close to her father. Miles slipped an arm around each of them.

“Thank you, doctor,” he said heavily.

Damien spoke not a word. He whirled and disappeared into the bedroom. Resuming his seat at Heather’s bedside, he tenderly brushed his fingers across her brow. The pallor in her skin was deathly. Her lashes lay like thick, black crescents on her cheeks. One side of her face was swollen and black.

When Miles and Victoria entered the bedroom hours later, he hadn’t moved. His face was gaunt and drawn. Her heart bleeding, Victoria laid comforting fingertips on his shoulder.

Only then did he acknowledge their presence. “Move her back to Lockhaven.” His voice was low and grating.

Miles hesitated. “Damien,” he began gently.

“If she is to recover, it will be there.” He turned burning eyes upon the pair.

Miles and Victoria cast a helpless look in each other’s direction.

“Please.” The word was rough, vibrant with his plea. “She”—his voice broke—“she loves it there.”

Victoria’s eyes filled with tears. Seeking her husband’s gaze, her wordless plea joined Damien’s.

Miles raised a hand, then let it fall to his side. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

Within a matter of days, the mistress of Lockhaven returned to her beloved home. The days passed, bright and sunny and warm. The fields flourished, and birds trilled cheerfully outside the room where Heather lay unmoving. But there
was no laughter in the manor house; there was only a silence that seemed to penetrate the very walls.

Nearly two weeks had passed since her fall down the stairs. All the while, Damien kept vigil in a chair at her bedside, never releasing her hand. The ugly bruise that swelled one side of her face had faded so that it was scarcely visible.

And still she did not awake.

And on this day, the despair he sought to avoid descended, swift and merciless. Bitterly he cursed the fates that would take her from him. He’d found love, only to see it slip from his grasp forever….

His gaze roved over her face, as if to brand it into his memory forever. She was heartbreakingly beautiful, he thought wistfully. But she was so still and white…fear pierced the depth of his soul. Shaking inside, he pushed back the cuff of the white linen nightgown she wore. His fingers sought the pulse in her wrist. It was barely there, thready and weak. He didn’t know whether to give thanks…or give up.

He reached for her, gripping her hand within his as if to instill his own lifeblood within her. He could scarcely breathe for the fiery ache in his chest.

“Oh, Heather,” he cried hoarsely. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t. I know I’ve hurt you…I’ll make it up to you, if only you’ll stay. Please fight, sweetheart. Please,” he begged. “I need you so much. I want the chance to make you happy. You never told me if you’d marry me, Heather. But I want you to be my wife—forever. I want to
grow old with you, love. I want to watch our child grow straight and tall. I want to give you dozens and dozens more children. Do you hear me, love? Dozens and dozens…” Tears choked his voice. He buried his head against her breast, unable to go on.

And then he felt it…a barely perceptible caress upon his nape. He raised his head to find her lashes fluttering. Her eyes opened, the color of heather in full bloom.

Her lips parted. Her whisper was so faint he had to bend low to hear it. “Will you…dance with me again?”

He whispered her name, a searing little sound that held a world of intensity. Catching her hand, he brought it to his cheek. “Yes…oh, yes! I love you, Heather.” He kissed her, a sensation that was painfully sweet for them both. When he drew back, his eyes delved deep into hers. “I never got the chance to tell you, but…I love you. God, how I love you….”

A faint smile grazed her lips. “And I never got the chance to tell you…I will marry you, Damien.”

Tears misted his vision. He dropped his head against her hand and wept.

Heather drifted in and out of wakefulness throughout the rest of the day. Every time she awoke, Damien was there by the bedside, holding her hand, his concern keenly evident in those clear, gray eyes.

By the next morning, she was well enough to move about the room for a few minutes. By
evening, she was ravenous. Having just consumed her first solid meal in days, she leaned back against the pillows, feeling quite content.

The physician pronounced her recovery miraculous. She’d been stunned to learn she’d been unconscious for nearly two weeks. At first she’d been terrified that she’d lost the babe, but the physician had assured her that since there had been no signs to indicate otherwise, their child appeared to be in no danger.

At times, she couldn’t help but think of James Elliot. She regretted his passing, for despite his evil nature, he had been her father. She mourned for the father who had never wanted her, who had never cared. But she could not grieve for this man who had abandoned her, when Miles had loved her as his own. And so she sought to keep reminders of James Elliot at bay, for she had no wish to linger on the past—not when the future loomed so brightly before her.

Damien loved her.
He loved her
. At times she felt like pinching herself to see if it was real, or but a dream.

The very subject of her thoughts had just pulled up his chair. He availed himself of the sweetness of her lips, then sat. “When will you marry me?” he asked without preamble.

Heather blinked, then took his strong, brown hand in hers and pressed it against her belly. “Well,” she said lightly, “there is a need for haste.”

His eyes began to gleam. Settling his gaze on her lips, he murmured, “I quite agree.”

Heather wrinkled her nose playfully.

His expression sobered. “Actually, I was thinking we ought to wed as soon as it can be arranged.” Watching her closely, he continued, “Would you mind terribly if it’s not a grand London affair?”

The tenderness in his gaze left her breathless. “Not at all. In fact, I’d much prefer the village church.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Consider it done.”

Heather smiled across at him. “You never did tell me. Were Mama and Papa shocked when they found out I’m with child?”

“Well,” he said dryly, “Miles looked as if he would quite cheerfully like to throttle me, but I think Victoria was able to redirect his excitement.”

Heather smiled knowingly. “She has a way of taking him well in hand.”

For the space of a heartbeat, she noticed that a faint wistfulness dwelled on his face. “My parents were much the same,” he murmured. Suddenly he straightened. “Good God, I completely forgot about the jewel case. What was it Elliot said my father told him?”

“Something about a treasure being hidden inside, I believe it was—his legacy to his wife, and something about a treasure beyond price.”

“That’s it, love.”

She watched curiously as Damien strode across to her bureau and retrieved the jewel case. He brought it back to the bed and placed it between them.

“Do you really think there’s a treasure?” Heather emptied it of its contents so he could examine it more fully.

“Frankly, no,” he admitted. “I suspect it was simply the ramblings of a grievously ill man.” His dark head was bent as he slid lean fingers along the inside corner of the compartments. When that inspection yielded nothing, he turned his attention to the outside.

Finally he sighed. “I hate to disappoint you, but—” All at once he stopped. His brow furrowed. His expression was intent. His fingers were on a side panel of silver.

All at once it slid free in his hands.

“By God,” he muttered in awe, “Elliot was right. There’s a tiny compartment….”

“Do you see anything inside?” Heather breathed. “It’s not very big, but there could be a small pouch of jewels. Diamonds, do you think?” She was as anxious as he.

But it was neither jewel nor gem that Damien withdrew. Instead it was a folded sheaf of paper, dry and yellow with age.

His pulse suddenly pounding, Damien opened it. “It’s a letter,” he said in an odd, strained voice. “A letter from my father to my mother.” He swallowed and began to read aloud.

Damien was silent a moment. “So this is the treasure Elliot was so determined to find.”

Heather was touched beyond words. “Your father was right,” she whispered. “It’s a bequeathal…. Can you imagine, they must have hidden letters to each other here.”

Damien folded the letter and replaced it in its hiding place, for that was where it belonged. When that was done, he carried the jewel case back to Heather’s bureau, then returned to the bedside.

He was stunned to find that her eyes glistened with tears. “Heather! What’s wrong, love?”

Heather’s heart twisted. A jagged sob escaped from her. “It’s just so—so sad. Don’t you see, your mother never saw this letter. Damien, I’ve never heard anything so—so moving in all my life! But she never had the chance to read it.”

Damien smoothed a tangle of hair from her cheek. “It doesn’t matter,” he said gently.

Misty violet eyes lifted to his. “Damien! How can you say such a thing?”

“Don’t you see, sweet? She already knew.” With the pad of his thumb, he tenderly wiped away her tears. “She knew long before then how much he loved her.”

Understanding slowly replaced the sadness in Heather’s expressive eyes.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” She smiled mistily.

“It’s much the same with us, I think,” he said softly. He pulled her into his embrace. “Knowing you love me is a feeling unlike any other.” He smiled against her lips. “And I can imagine no greater treasure.”

They were married a scant ten days later in the village church, surrounded by masses and masses of sweet-scented wildflowers. Escorted by Miles, Heather walked proudly down the aisle where Damien awaited her. The dress she wore was of antique white, cascading from her tiny waist in shimmering folds of satin and lace. The bodice was adorned with hundreds of tiny white pearls. On her head was a veil of sheer white lace.

At Damien’s request, she carried a simple bouquet of violets, the exact shade of her eyes.

No bride had ever looked more beautiful, he decided.

No bride had ever
felt
more beautiful, she was certain.

Indeed, Heather counted that day the happiest in her life. But as she discovered, it was just the beginning of many to follow.

Their son was born on a blustery March night. Though the midwife pronounced such behavior unheard of, Damien insisted on being at her side
throughout her labor—and at the moment one Wesley Charles Tremayne made his entrance into the world.

Less than two short months later, Bridget and Robert MacTavish became the proud parents of a healthy baby boy. As she had before, it was Heather who delivered the babe. Once again, she cried along with Bridget—only this time they were tears of joy.

Heather and Damien divided their time between Damien’s estate in Yorkshire, and Lockhaven. Not long after their marriage, Damien had quietly sold Bayberry, his plantation in Virginia. As he’d told Heather, his place was in England—with her.

But it was Lockhaven that would always be home to both of them. And on this sunny summer day in early June, she, Damien, and Wesley had spread a blanket on the very spot where Heather and Damien had first met over two years before.

Damien sat with his back propped against a stout oak tree, muscled legs stretched out before him, booted feet crossed at the ankles. Wesley lay on his father’s torso, his chubby legs drawn up beneath his tummy so that his little rump stuck high in the air. His cheek pressed against Damien’s chest, Wesley curled one small fist next to his mouth, which even now was as beautifully shaped as his father’s.

Heather’s eyes grew soft. Poor little lamb. He’d worn himself out scooting around the field with his father at his heels. He’d walked at the age of ten months and was soon on his feet nearly every
waking moment, much to his mother’s occasional dismay and his father’s delight.

Her sketchbook in hand, Heather sought to capture the strength of the bond between father and son. She couldn’t help but remember the day she had first sketched Damien—how very different he looked now! The pain shuttered deep in his soul was no more. His eyes held no shadows…

His heart no secrets.

She watched as that strong, brown hand slid up and down the curve of Wesley’s spine, occasionally drifting up to tenderly cup dark curls the color of midnight. Unaware of her scrutiny, he pressed his lips to the baby’s scalp. He turned his head, and their eyes meshed.

Heather’s heart melted.

So did his.

His gaze never left hers as he set aside his precious burden, then proceeded to set aside her sketchbook and pencil.

“I’m working!” Her protest was halfhearted.

“So am I.” He was busy unlacing the front of her bodice. She’d dressed in a faded muslin gown that had seen far better days. Her hair tumbled free and loose around her shoulders and down her back. Even her feet were bare.

Damien drew back slowly. His eyes wandered down, then back up to her face. He smiled. “You look like a gypsy,” he said.

“And you look like a sheep farmer.”

“I
am
a sheep farmer.” His grin was boyishly crooked. “But I suppose ’tis better to look like one than to smell like one.”

As he spoke, he tugged the shoulders of her bodice halfway down her arms.

Heather swallowed. All at once her mouth was dry. “Damien.”

“Hmmm.” His mouth brushed the pale swell of one full breast.

Her hand hovered just above his nape. “Wait,” she whispered.

The urgency in her tone brought his head up. He searched her features. “What is it, love?”

Heather brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead. Her heart was suddenly pounding. “Remember you once said you wanted dozens and dozens of children?”

“I do indeed,” he said softly. “It was the day I thought I’d lost you. The day you came back to me.”

Heather smiled shakily. Her eyes clung to his. “Did you mean it?”

His body had gone utterly still. Comprehension flashed across his face. His hand slid down to the flatness of her belly; his eyes followed. Now it was he who swallowed.

“Why?” His voice was but a breath. “Is there…are you…?”

She nodded.

He dragged her into his arms. His grin was totally unrepentant. “Well,” he murmured just before his mouth came down on hers, “I did warn you…”